The Scent of Rage
by N2
Summary: Angry Scott/Lance smut.


**-The Scent of Rage-**

The air was heavy and ripe with the scent of wet rot; an odor so omnipresent that it seemed almost tangible. Scott Summers felt that if he were to close his eyes and reach out he would encounter the air as a moist, softly yielding fungus. After some consideration he decided against the experiment. _Professor, where are you? _His eyes roamed aimlessly over the peeling wallpaper, the cracked windowsill, the water-stained ceiling. _Please, don't let Mystique be feeding us a line… She'd better be telling the truth or… or…_

He didn't know. 

Following the revelation of her disguise, Mystique had been quick to diffuse a potentially violent situation by claiming to know the whereabouts of the real Charles Xavier. "And if you ever want to see your precious Professor again," she'd said through a coldly calculating smirk, "I suggest you shut up and do exactly as I say." 

The moment was still crystal-clear in his memory. He could remember how Mystique stood before him, arrogant and completely in-control. Jean had looked to him then, her beautiful face twisted into a mask of guilty understanding. She hadn't known. He'd felt a flash of uncharacteristic anger; she was a TELEPATH dammit, how could the imposter amongst them have fooled her? 

"That's not fair," he whispered to the dank air. "You know that." 

Still, it was hard to shake the memory. They'd all been so blind… and then to have that bitch lording over them in their foolishness. And the Brotherhood Boys, he was sure they'd known all along. Alvers in particular, grinning lopsidedly at him with utter disdain shining flatly in his dark eyes. Scott felt rage uncurl poisonously in the pit of his stomach and fought against it. He needed to be in control, to have a clear head. 

_But what I wouldn't give to have a shot at that jerk._

Scott exhaled, shocked at how ragged the sound was in the moist silence. It wasn't like he wouldn't have plenty of opportunities… Mystique, for reasons known only to her, had insisted the X-Men accompany her and her team back to the ramshackle boarding house that served as their living quarters. Scott had agreed to go along only because he honestly had no other ideas as to how to find the Professor. 

That, and they had nowhere else to go. 

So he wound up where he was: sitting on a mattress of dubious origin in a foul, damp bedroom on the second floor of the old building. With someone knocking on the door. 

_Huh?_

"Yes?" he called. 

"Scott, it's me, Jean." Her voice was strained. 

"Come in." 

The door opened; a rectangle of dusty light silhouetting a familiar form. Jean moved carefully across the room to sit beside Scott, and he saw she had dark circles under her eyes. "Hey," he said quietly. 

"Hey," she replied. "I thought I'd come see how you're doing." 

He bit back a sarcastic reply. "Alright, I suppose. You?" 

"I hate it here," she admitted. "I mean, I know we have to find the professor… and figure out a way to get Rogue and the others back but…" She ran her hands through her hair, biting her lip unconsciously as she did so. "God, how do they LIVE here, Scott? It's a total sty." 

"Yeah well, somehow I doubt anyone here subscribes to Martha Stewart living. This is temporary, Jean. We just have to-" 

"We have to do something soon, is what we have to do. It's been three days Scott!" She looked at him, her eyes huge but nonetheless demanding. "Mystique claims to know where he is and I think she's telling the truth. We have to get that information out of her, one way or another. If I have to force my way into her mind, I'll do it." 

"And have her sic the Scarlet Witch on you, sure." He repressed a frustrated sigh as Jean's eyes narrowed angrily. "Look, I'm working on it. Just hang in there." 

"Sure. Scott, I--" She stopped and stood. "We'll talk later." She strode across the room, pausing at the door to glare down the hallway. Then she was gone. 

Scott scowled at the floor, pushing away the anger he felt pressing in on him. He was doing the best he could, dammit, but he wasn't infallible! His earlier resentment was trying to resurface and nearly succeeding. 

"I take it the princess ain't used to such inferior accommodations." 

Scott looked up, already knowing what he was going to see. _This I do NOT need right now,_ he thought and gritted his teeth. 

Lance Alvers leaned languidly against the doorframe, a black outline of latent rebellion. Scott could hear the smile in the other boy's voice and felt pure, sharp hatred rise in his throat like bile. 

"Piss off, Alvers." 

"I'm shocked to hear such language from an X-Man," Lance replied lightly. 

"Suits the atmosphere," Scott shot back. "Now get out." 

Lance sauntered into the room and swept the door shut behind him. It banged against the frame and cut off the light coming from the hallway so the two boys faced each other in sudden darkness. 

Scott felt himself hauled roughly forward by the front of his shirt. "Look, Summers, you think you're _welcome_ here?" Lance's voice hissed out of the shadow. "If it were up to me, every last one of you would be camping out on the rubble of your fancy mansion. You think we need you marching around OUR home, lookin' down on us?" 

Scott made no reply, and Lance let go of his shirt. "Shit. You should be grateful we're giving you a place to stay." 

"We can take care of ourselves," Scott said. 

Lance snorted. "Sure, Summers. It's the real world out there." 

Scott felt rage boil over inside him. "Oh, and of course we can't handle that, right? Jesus, Alvers, you accuse US of being judgmental! Life hasn't been easy for all of us either, you know." He paused, glaring into the fetid dark. "You think just because we live in a nice house and work hard that we don't know what it's like to be hurt? Well, fuck you!" 

Seconds ticked by in silence. The air was hot, yielding flesh forcing its way into his lungs. Claustrophobic. The bed creaked as Lance sat down beside him. 

"You ain't half as pulled together as you pretend to be, are you?" he asked. Scott did not reply. There was some scent in the air, not the rot, but something heavier that pulsated in the dark. Something animal. 

He could feel Lance leaning closer. "So tell me, Summers, since we're having such a nice discussion… what hurts you, huh? I bet I know. Losing that Grey bitch to Matthews, right?" Scott heard a soft rasping noise and knew it was Lance's tongue sliding across his smiling lips. Lance leaned even closer to whisper in Scott's ear, "Think he fucked her?" 

"Son of a -" They fell to the floor, Scott's hands groping blindly for the other boy's windpipe. Lance struggled, and Scott knew, KNEW somehow, that he was still smiling. He didn't feel any of Lance's punches; he was consumed solely with the desire to choke the life out of the warm body pinned beneath him. Scott pushed himself close, his face inches above the other boy's, his mind enfolded in scent. 

He didn't notice the precise moment his lips met Lance's. There seemed to be no transition whatsoever; one moment he was trying to strangle him and the next his tongue was plunging into a consenting mouth while his hands entangled themselves in dark hair and pulled. Lance moaned and Scott felt hands slide roughly over his back to draw him closer. His groin flooded with sudden heat and he pushed himself with violent urgency against the warm, writhing form below him. 

Hot tongue, roaming hands, knotted limbs; his erection was huge and the smell of mildew had vanished. There was only sweat, saliva and something savage in the air. 

Scott felt Lance's hands move to his waist. Instead of divesting him of his pants, Lance's fingers hooked themselves into the belt loops and jerked. Scott gasped as their bodies slammed against one another. Over and over… 

He was peripherally aware of sound; a low and distant whining interrupted by sharp gasps and ragged breathing. It wasn't important. The motion of his hips sped up. 

Over and over… 

"Fuck," Lance whimpered. He sounded like he was dying. The thought was delicious; Scott thrust himself desperately against the other boy and felt himself achieve fierce and vulgar orgasm. 

They lay there, entwined, gasping for breath. _I came in my pants,_ Scott thought dully. _That hasn't happened in a while…_

He rolled off of Lance and sat up. There was no sound but their breathing as it evened out once more. He knew they would never speak of what had passed between them; there had been no love in the act. After a minute, Lance stood and left, leaving the door open. 

The air smelt faintly of dry rot. Scott stood carefully and went to use the shower. 

-end- 

**Author's Note:** Yeah, originally the boys were supposed to have some nice, civilized conversation. Obviously THAT didn't work. 


End file.
